Emergency in the Pyrenees

by Ann Bridge

  He took Nick first. After luncheon—during which Lady Heriot informed him that Dick and Luzia were at that moment at Larége, closing up the house—he asked Nick if he could drive him round to the Clinique? But downstairs Jamieson made no move to enter the Dauphine.

  ‘I want to talk to you for a moment’ he said, as he spoke instinctively moving away from the house across the gravelled sweep, and out onto the wide lawn.

  ‘Yes?’ Nick asked, following him.

  ‘Do you or your brother belong to this flying Club here?’

  ‘You mean Les Ailes Basques? No, we don’t.’

  ‘But you have friends who do?’

  ‘Yes.’ Nick was beginning to scent something interesting.

  ‘Any of them English?’

  ‘Yes, three are.’

  ‘That would be best. It’s this business of getting our friend out to Spain. Would any of them know a place called’—he had pulled out his note-book, and looked in it—‘Le Plateau de Permounat?’

  ‘Well they could check it on the maps; I know it’s fairly close to Tardets.’

  ‘And do any of their planes have petrol-range enough to fly on into Spain to a place with a name like Verdun, and back?’

  ‘Oh, you mean Berdun, that old abandoned airfield. Half-a-minute.’ Nick went over to his car, pulled a map out of the pocket, spread it on the bonnet, and studied it. ‘Yes, here we are—no distance from the Jaca—Pamplona road. That would be well within their range.’ He looked at Jamieson with interest. ‘Goodness, Sir, you are up in this district!’

  ‘I‘m not—this is all Bonnecourt’s idea.’

  ‘Bonnecourt’s? But you haven’t seen him!’

  ‘Yes, he came over this morning.’ Philip enjoyed Nick Heriot’s face at this announcement.

  ‘The man must be mad! Did the servants see him too?’

  ‘They only saw an old Professor, with white hair and beard, stumbling along; but it was Bonnecourt all right. He’s agreed to come back to work with us again, and to live in Scotland as a stalker between assignments; the one condition he made was that you or your brother should drive his car into the river, so that it shouldn’t be broken up’ Jamieson said, smiling. ‘I promised him that you would.’

  ‘He’s nuts about that car. In fact he’s nuts altogether!’ Nick exclaimed impatiently. ‘He promised to stay at Tardets.’ He put away the map, and got in.

  ‘He’s a very good impersonator’ Jamieson said, as they drove off. ‘Well, will you get on to one of your flying friends at once, and try to lay him on for tomorrow or next day?’

  ‘I’ll try’ Nick said. ‘But most of them are usually in the air on Sundays.’ He pulled up, suddenly, half-way down the drive. ‘We’d better think this out a bit first. I’d rather get Acland—he’s much the best pilot, and you have to be pretty nippy for these tiny landings and take-offs. Let’s have another look at the map’—he took it out again and spread it across the steering-wheel and Jamieson’s knees. ‘Plateau de Permounat; here we are. Yes—good; the main axis runs roughly East—West; well nearly North-East-South-West. That’s all right; those are our prevailing winds. You see on these minute air-strips the planes can only land and take off against the wind—but of course you know that.’

  ‘What about the other place, Berdun?’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right in any wind—it used to be a proper airfield. The last time I was there, last year, there were still the red-and-white markers along the main runway, and even a ragged old airsock; quite a lot of bushes beginning to grow up, and the odd goat browsing, but Tim Acland managed all right.’ He started to fold up the map.

  ‘Just a moment’ Philip said. ‘How long will it take Bonnecourt to get to this pick-up plateau from Tardets?’ He and Nick both bent over the map.

  ‘On foot, at least six hours’ Nick said.

  ‘All right—minimum of seven hours notice. That means letting him know in good time. Very well—let’s go on.’

  ‘Just one thing, Sir. How much can I tell Acland?’

  Philip considered. ‘Does he know Bonnecourt by sight?’

  ‘I’m not sure—he used to do a bit of climbing before he started flying, so he easily might.’

  ‘Then I think you’ll have to tell him about B., and his past record, and that he’s being got out with official approval. Don’t say why he has to leave, if you can help it. I take it he’s a trustworthy person?’

  ‘Oh Lord yes. All Aclands are madly pious’ Nick replied cheerfully, starting his engine.

  Philip asked to be dropped first at the Victoire—there he got out Colin’s keys, and checked on the Rover; it had not been tampered with, as he half-feared, and started with no trouble. He went in and said he would be wanting his room that night; the patron was having his siesta, but the all-purposes, round-the-clock valet took the message. ‘Since yesterday we no longer have an agent here’ he announced cheerfully. ‘This is well, n’est-cepas?’

  Philip drove even the short distance to the clinic, to put a little life into the Rover’s battery. After all these minor delays once again the ‘period of repose’ was over; the old head sage-femme took him straight in to see Julia. His wife lay in bed, calm and beautiful; he was struck, suddenly, by the sense of abundance that she gave: of beauty, calmness, and strength. Beautiful she had always been, and decided, and nonchalant when she chose; but this was something different. Could it be due to this new fulfilment, he wondered?

  She asked first about his journey to Paris—presently, when all that had been dealt with—‘I had to give the baby names, and register them’ she pronounced. ‘I hope you’ll like them.’

  ‘Why did you have to do that while I was away?’

  Julia told him about the limit of trois jours francs for registering a birth, and the Mairie closing at noon on Saturdays. ‘Kind old Lord Heriot did it for me, just before they packed up.’

  ‘What have you called him?’

  ‘Philip Bernard.’ She watched his face.

  ‘Bernard isn’t a family name—my Father and Grandfather were both called Robert Philip,’ he said, doubtfully.

  ‘Yes. But neither of them did much about seeing that this child came into the world at all’ Julia replied, in her slow tones, smiling a little mockingly at her husband. He laughed, at last seizing the point.

  ‘Yes—I see. Quite right; well done.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re pleased. It was torture suddenly having to decide, with you away. How murderously tiresome the loi de France is’ Julia said; but still calmly, passing a considered judgment. Then she asked if Bonnecourt had gone to Pamplona?

  ‘No! He came over to see me this morning.’

  ‘Gracious! To the Heriots?’

  ‘Yes; in disguise!’

  ‘Oh, what fun. Isn’t he nice?’

  ‘He may be nice, but he’s going to be a bit of a problem unless he can learn to be more disciplined’ Philip said. He told Julia that the hunter had agreed to go as a stalker to Glentoran, as a cover-job—‘So now you’d better write to Edina, hadn’t you? He may get there quite soon.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Well I hope to get him flown out to Pamplona, the day after tomorrow probably—and Colin will drive him straight down to Gib, and have him flown home from there. You’d better write that letter at once, to catch tonight’s post. I shall have to ring Colin too, and tell him; I’d better go back to the Heriots to do that—the telephones here and at the pub are so infernally public.’

  ‘Well give me my despatch-case’ Julia said. ‘Oh, what about Madame B? Is she going too?’

  ‘Yes. Not immediately. We can see about her later on.’

  ‘Well I’d better know when she is going, so that I can warn Edina. The French may be bloody-minded, but they are clean’ Julia stated firmly. ‘Goodbye, dearest—come back and collect my letter, won’t you?’

  But no sooner had she started writing than the old sage-femme brought in the infant Philip Bernard to be nursed. ‘Madame writes—this is
wrong’ the old woman said. She put the child in position; he began to suck at once, while the old woman looked on.

  ‘This is well. For a premature, he is a strong infant’ the sagefemme said.

  When she had gone out Julia lay in that strange, unique tranquillity induced by nursing a child. This is perhaps the most calming occupation in the world: so everyday, so normal, and yet so evidently necessary that even the stupidest woman can hardly escape a passive satisfaction in it. Julia—less stupid than people sometimes supposed, misled by her expressionless beauty—surrendered completely to this satisfaction.

  When the old sage-femme returned she dumped the baby casually down on the bed, and gave Julia back her despatchcase.

  But before Julia had finished writing to Edina Reeder at Glentoran announcing Bonnecourt’s arrival as an extra stalker, to be followed later by his wife—‘and as she is French, Mrs. Cameron really must make the cottage at Ach-an-Draine perfectly clean’—a little nurse opened the door and ushered in Dick, weighed down with suitcases; he dropped them, and went out to fetch the rest. Then Luzia came in with Julia’s Burberry and water-proof hat, explaining that she had only noticed these on the hooks by the door when the cases were already in the car.

  ‘Put them in the cupboard,’ Julia said, as Dick came in with two more cases. ‘How kind of you both.’

  ‘Do not forget the vinho’ Luzia adjured Dick; grinning, he went out, and returned with his arms full of bottles—several of the sherry they had purchased at Jaca, more of the vin du pays that the twins had bought and bottled for Julia.

  ‘Luzia says you’re going to the Victoire next week—that miserable place is bone dry, so I thought we’d better bring you down a little sustenance’ the young man said.

  ‘Thank you. Put them in the cupboard’ Julia repeated. ‘No, wait—leave one bottle of sherry out. Luzia, give me my handbag’ she took a cork-screw out of it. ‘Now would you go and find another glass somewhere. There are two on the washstand—wash them out, Dick, like a dear. I feel like some sherry, after all this child-bearing!’

  ‘Well, this is a regular tooth-glass party’ Dick said presently, when they were all drinking sherry. ‘Often they’re the best kind.’

  Julia made some practical enquiries about what they had done. ‘You left the key at Barraterre’s?’

  ‘No, because we return tomorrow to make the house clean. But Mme. Barraterre is paid—she sent her felicitations on the birth of the son.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think the Stansteds would notice whether the house was clean or not’ Julia said, with calm uncharitableness—‘except perhaps the frig.’

  ‘I cleaned out the frig while Luzia was at Mass’ Dick said proudly—‘I made a wonderful job of it, I assure you.’

  ‘Also we paid for the milk’ Luzia continued. ‘And while we wait for this good soul to make her reckoning, which takes long, there arrives Madame Bonnecourt—who gives Dick thousands of francs, which she says Nick lent to her husband.’

  ‘Goodness, has Bonnecourt been back to Larége?’ Julia asked—she just managed to suppress the word ‘too’.

  ‘No; she said that he sent it. This is a strange being!—it seems that he does as he pleases’ Luzia said, looking amused. While she was speaking Colonel Jamieson came in, ushered by the little nurse—he caught the last words.

  ‘Who does as he pleases, Condesa?’ he asked. ‘Hullo, Heriot! You must be Dick—just left your brother.’

  ‘This guide-person at Larége,’ Luzia said—the nurse had not quite closed the door; Jamieson did so himself. ‘We were there today’ Luzia went on, ‘packing.’

  ‘Did you see him?’ Jamieson asked; after the morning’s performance he felt that Bonnecourt was capable of anything.

  ‘No, only Madame. But she had heard from him, and he had sent money; for Nick.’

  ‘For Her Ladyship, you mean really’ Dick said—Jamieson brushed the observation aside.

  ‘What is she like?’ he asked Luzia with interest.

  ‘Not young; once pretty, now faded; and I think a nice person’ the girl said. ‘One sees that she is devoted to her husband, and often in anxiety about him. But she keeps her dairy beautifully’ she added—‘this I saw one day.’

  Jamieson glanced at his wife, whose despatch-case was on her knees. His one desire now was to get rid of Dick and Luzia, collect Julia’s letter to Glentoran, and post it.

  ‘How good of you to go up there and pack’ he said courteously to Luzia. ‘Well, I shall be seeing you at dinner—Lady Heriot has been kind enough to invite me. Dick, I believe your Mother hopes you are at Evensong.’

  ‘Oh Lord, I forgot all about it! Well, it’s too late now.’ But they both took the hint; Luzia kissed Julia, and the pair went off. Philip at last kissed his wife. ‘Is that letter done?’ he asked.

  ‘Not quite. First I had to feed the child, and then they came.’

  ‘Well you’d better tell Edina that Mrs. B. is a good dairy-hand’ he said, as Julia opened her case—while she started to write again he rinsed Luzia’s glass out in the basin and helped himself to sherry. He lit a cigarette, and sat quietly, while his wife scribbled away.

  ‘Do you know yet when he goes?’ Julia asked.

  ‘No. Not tomorrow; Nick says his good pilot won’t be free till the day after.’

  ‘Tuesday. How long will it take Colin to drive to Gib?’

  ‘Well, better allow two days—it could be done in one, I think, but safer to say two.’

  ‘That brings us to Thursday. Fly home, one day—could B. be sure of getting a flight on the Friday?’

  ‘Not by any means. Better reckon London on Saturday.’

  ‘Well we all know about the lack of trains and buses in Scotland on the Sabbath!’ Julia said, sardonically. ‘Even if the Office flew him to Renfrew, he couldn’t get on. I’d better say Monday or Tuesday week, at earliest, for him to reach Glentoran.’ She wrote away—then looked up at her husband.

  ‘You know, much the most sensible thing would be to have Colin fly home with him, and take him up’ she said. ‘Then they could go on the bus from Glasgow, like anyone else; Colin would know where to get off, and no need for exciting helicopters landing in the Dairy Park, or strange cars dashing up from Machrahanish! If you want Bonnecourt to get to Glentoran unobtrusively, that’s the way to do it.’

  ‘I think you’re right’ Jamieson said. ‘Of course I’ve only been there once; and arrived, and left, by sea. But this seems a sound plan. I was going to drive over to Pamplona anyhow tomorrow to see Colin and tell him about picking B. up—telephoning from France to Spain is hopeless! But now we can switch cars at the same time. No point in my Bordeaux hire-car being left at Gibraltar indefinitely—I can take it back when I have to go home.’

  ‘When do you go home?’ Julia asked, putting down her pen.

  ‘Look, dearest, do get that letter finished—then we’ll discuss plans’ her husband said firmly; obediently, Julia completed her missive to Edina, and licked down the envelope.

  ‘There’ she said, tossing it across the bed. ‘Now—may I ask some questions?’

  ‘Yes.’ He went over and kissed her. ‘Bless you!’ He was thinking that if marriage and Intelligence could be made compatible at all, Julia was one of the few women to make them so. ‘Ask away’ he said, sitting on the bed and taking her hand.

  ‘Well first, when do you have to get back?’

  ‘In about a fortnight. What a mercy they sent for me to come home and report just at the appropriate moment! But I shall have to return to my Sheiks and finish the job—well really as soon as I conveniently can.’

  ‘Taking about how long?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I see.’ Julia considered. ‘Not conveniently, on any date’ she said. ‘However! I gave Buchan and Mrs. What’s-it weekly cheques up to the end of September, but now I shan’t get back till the middle of November; I’ll write out some more, and you can hand them over when you get home.’

  ‘Right. What about
the nurse?’

  ‘I was coming to her. You’ll have to ring up her organisation—I think it’s called “Monthly Nurses Ltd.”, but you’ll find it in the big address book on my desk—and find out how much we ought to pay for the cancellation. Then you can send them a cheque, and explain.’

  ‘I will. What about Nannie Mackenzie? You’ll want her a month sooner, won’t you?’

  ‘Goodness, so I shall. How clever you are! I hope to God she’ll be free. You’d better ring up Edina and find out about that. Oh yes, and cancel the wretched accoucheur too—he won’t be wanted. How complicated babies can make things, when they’re born out of due time! Dear one, I’m sorry to give you so much bother.’

  ‘Nothing matters, so long as you and he are all right.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I must go now, or I shall be late for dinner. See you late on Tuesday, or some time Wednesday.’ He bent over the bed and gave her a long embrace. ‘Bless you, my darling.’

  Chapter 12

  Philip Jamieson felt that ‘Operation Bernardin’, as it came to be called, owed a great deal to the young Heriots, and their local knowledge. When Dick was told of the plan after dinner—they were sitting in the boys’ own room, which housed shelves-ful of books, their wireless and record-player, and a welter of scientific papers—he said at once: ‘There’s a cabane up at Permounat. Hadn’t we better make sure that the shepherds have gone down? They ought to have by now, of course. Or do you not mind the odd peasant seeing B. being picked up and flown off, Sir?’

  In fact this is the sort of thing Intelligence does mind very much; one can seldom be absolutely sure that the peasant is really a peasant.

  ‘Is there any means of finding out?’ the Colonel enquired.

  ‘Yes, I can ask when I’m up at Larége tomorrow—they all take their flocks down roughly at the same time, and one valley usually knows what the other valleys are doing. I’ll see to that.’

  Philip turned to Nick.

  ‘If we only hear tomorrow evening whether there are still shepherds up there, either we must find another place, or stand it all off till they do go. So Wednesday will probably be the earliest day in any case.’